


recovery in parallel tracks

by seraf



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Virtual Reality, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: a simple moment, a slip while cooking, is all it takes.four years after the game, amami and shinguuji live together.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Shinguji Korekiyo, Amami Rantaro/Shinguji Korekiyo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 367





	recovery in parallel tracks

it starts so simply.

he cuts his thumb while making dinner, accidentally nicks his skin with the blade.

he puts a bandage on it.

he takes it off.

he puts on another bandage. ( food safety, after all, and it would simply be safer. )

he takes the second one off. ( something about the harsh fabric against his skin, the white of it, makes him uneasy - )

he fumbles with the box, puts on a third, resolves to keep it there. ( it’s been four years, after all. shouldn’t he be over it? why are his hands shaking? )

rips it off with his nails, letting it drop to the floor. ( the linen scratching his face as he clutches it as saihara hammers the point home, saihara whose calls he still avoids sometimes, the bandages collecting moisture like they do now with the thin veneer of sweat crawling over his skin as he’s boiled alive, holding his arms together to keep his flesh from rending apart in the hot water, and - )

he rips the paper off another bandage, stares at it for a moment.

amami finds him sitting on the floor, back against the kitchen counter, the vegetables left abandoned alongside the knife that set this all off to begin with. methodically, silently, staring straight at the floor, shinguuji carefully rips the flimsy ( empty ) cardboard box to even-sized pieces, covering his thighs, the kitchen floor. it’s important that they’re even. it’s important. he couldn’t say why, though.

( a coping mechanism. from the hospital, maybe, or after it. anxious habit. if he’s busy, he won’t think about it. if he’s busy, he won’t think about it. _it_ being the all encompassing term for - no. he shoves the lid of pandora’s box just a little bit more shut, checks the dusty locks. )

amami doesn’t say anything, simply sits next to him, carefully shifting the pieces of the box to pile against the side of shinguuji’s thigh so he doesn’t accidentally sit on any of them. and he waits, patient and still, as shinguuji methodically tears the box into its eight seperate flaps, and tears those down to so much confetti. when his hand darts out again, amami takes it, gently, but firmly, smoothing his thumb over shinguuji’s knuckles. ‘ hey there, ‘ he says, softly, nonconfrontationally. he doesn’t meet shinguuji’s eyes, gives him the chance to see as much or as little of amami as he wants.

it takes a moment.

it takes two.

amami is patient. he has learned how to be. he is glad he has, can be for shinguuji.

slowly, shinguuji’s hand tightens around his own, something like recognition, a greeting. coming out of his own head. ( something that was _hard_ for shinguuji. it had been an uphill battle for him to even breach the surface of cognizance, gasping for identity like a drowning man desperate for air. )

‘ hey, ‘ amami says again. he doesn’t mind repeating himself. he smiles, catches shinguuji’s vision in the corner of his eyes, squeezes his thin hand gently. ‘ do you want me to finish making dinner? ‘

shinguuji exhales, hand twitching for a moment. ‘ ah . . . no, ‘ he murmurs, and there is something reminiscent of guilt, in his voice. like a shame too close to his heart for anyone else to know. ‘ i said i would, after all. i have simply experienced a . . . minor setback. ‘

amami looks at where he’s sitting on the floor, at the shattered remnants of his thoughts and twenty-some bandage wrappers. ‘ did you . . . get hurt? ‘ phrases it very carefully, voice light in tone. doesn’t ask _did you hurt yourself,_ doesn’t bring back the connotations that might have.

shinguuji waves his hand slightly. ‘ it’s . . . no. not really. i cut my finger. ‘ he is doing better now. slowly, amami is beginning to pull him back out of his own head. if anything, he sounds more _annoyed_ than anything else. slowly, he stretches out his legs, splays his fingers. like a systems going through a reboot, running through everything to make sure it works. he exhales, and shifts to begin picking up the litter.

amami stops him, rests a hand on his knee. ‘ lemme see it. ‘ his smile is warm and unrevealing as ever.

shinguuji gives him a blank look.

amami huffs out a laugh, hand finding the back of his head, resting in his own hair, almost sheepish. ( shinguuji likes this color on him. a soft teal of sorts. in the years since the game ended, he cycles through them, restless. pink, blue, straight white and then a deep grey, green again but only briefly, a sunset orange, and a purple that shinguuji begged him to change, the exact hue of ouma’s by some awful coincidence. ) ‘ i’m not gonna do anything weird, i promise. just trust me. ‘

that, shinguuji can do.

he gives his hand to amami unflinchingly.

it’s not a very deep cut. amami gently dampens a paper towel and works to scrub off the dried blood, fingers gentle, the water cool as it brushes over the pad of shinguuji’s finger. after a moment, amami crumples the damp paper towel into a ball and tosses it into the garbage can across the room, grinning a little to himself when it lands. ( shinguuji can’t help but shake his head fondly at that. he knows it’s one-part silliness, two-parts wanting not to let go of his hand. )

‘ are you satisfied? ‘ shinguuji asks, mouth pressing into an amused line behind his mask.

amami narrows his eyes, as though putting the minor cut on shinguuji’s finger under an intense scrutiny. ‘ not quite. . . ‘

that goes far enough to pull a quiet laugh out of shinguuji, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear where it is displaced when he shook his head. ‘ you are impossible. what could - ‘

amami leans down gently and presses his lips to the small mark, a delicate brush of a thing, and shinguuji forgets how to speak for a moment, blinking at him. looking for an explanation.

the closest thing he gets is a soft little laugh as, finally, amami lets go of his hand, and shinguuji is _horrified_ to discover that there’s a faint color creeping into their cheeks as they pull their hand back to their chest. ‘ see? ‘ amami says, infuriatingly smug, in that easygoing way he has, ‘ it’s all better now. ‘

shinguuji looks at the cut. it _has_ stopped bleeding. he arches a thin eyebrow. ‘ yes, because i first cut myself about twenty-five minutes, and with the clotting rate of blood, especially in a cut as small as this one, it would not take that long for the bleeding to - ‘

‘ nah, ‘ amami says, shifting to sit next to shinguuji, his back leaning against the counter as well, their shoulders brushing companionably. ( amami is warm, as he always is. shinguuji wants - he wants him to hold them, they want him to take their hand again, they want - they want too much. that is nothing new. they have always wanted too much. whoever they had been before the game . . . shinguuji wonders if he had also been this greedy. ) ‘ i think it was all me. ‘

shinguuji breathes out a laugh, leans against him a little, hopes the shift of weight goes . . . not unnoticed. but that amami allows it. that it doesn’t bother him. ‘ you know, in all your talents, i don’t think ultimate healer has ever made the list, amami-kun. ‘

‘ that you know of, ‘ amami jokes lightly, ‘ have you watched season forty-nine? i was the ultimate paramedic, then. ‘

shinguuji raises an eyebrow again, skeptical but fondly so. ‘ no, i haven’t, ‘ they say, playing along. ‘ i imagine you would cut quite the striking image, with your green hair and in a medical coat. ‘

amami laughs softly, and not for the first time, shinguuji wonders how much he remembers of the other games he’s been in. it is hard enough for shinguuji to try and accept the idea that they used to be an entirely different person. amami has been six. whoever he was before danganronpa, and then games 49, V0, V1, V2, and V3. shinguuji wonders if he is talking to a seventh amami. if he is the same adventurer he met in the game - but shinguuji is far from that anthropologist.

he draws the conclusion that he does not envy amami his victories, or his years of stagnation - being eighteen again, and again, and again, for the sake of entertainment. but it makes him feel guilty, too. that amami is comforting _him._ he has only been through the one game - what right does he have to - how can he do this without paying back the immeasurable debt he must owe amami -

‘ hey, ‘ amami says softly, and squeezes shinguuji’s head. ‘ you’re in your own head again. ‘

shinguuji nods, glad to be drawn out of it. shuts their eyes briefly, and breathes in, out. remembers that not everything is in terms of debt or comparison. remembers the times he _has_ helped amami. remembers that amami has been here for three years now, and is here of his own volition - he certainly has the money and resources to live anywhere else, _with_ anyone else.

remembers that he is here next to him. remembers that there is no one watching them, anymore.

‘ not anymore, ‘ he says to amami, squeezing his hand in return. he can’t feel the cut, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> a little bit disjointed, as my writing is wont to be, but i hope u enjoy it <3


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